Tonight the World Dies
by BookyJuliet
Summary: Some days, his children were such disappointments. And if he were to survive, Voldemort conceded that he would have no choice but to teach them all a lesson, or perhaps, kill them all, and start fresh. Yes, that was another good idea.


**Title: **Tonight the World Dies  
**Author: **BookyJuliet  
**Genre: **Dark, Thoughtful.  
**AU/CU: **Canon.  
**Rating: **K+.  
**Warnings: **You are about to read the fic of a daft woman who choose to write from Voldemort's point of view…you've been amply warned I reckon.  
**Word Count: **1,111.  
**A/N: **Alright, so two things. Frist: yes, it is a one-shot written in the point of view of Voldemort. Why? Because I have never tried it before. Looking it over, I see there is a good reason for this. This one shot is inspired by Thirty-Minute HP Fic Challenges at LiveJournal. In particular, particular, prompt number eighty, Voldemort's Point of View. You can find this community at (30minutefics dot livejournal dot com). If you are like me, this is helpful, if you are not…well…it's always good to have useless information. I do like a good **review** now and again, in case you are curious. Just an idea.

Tonight the World Dies

The sound of a raspy inhale filled the silent and dark room. While it was true he was a wizard of dark and unnatural things, he did prefer to have light in his place of residence, something to look forward to. Unfortunately, the world had other ideas. There was no help for it, with Potter and the Order of the Phoenix hunting him, and his children, the Dark Lord was left with very few options than to hide out, hide out and wait.

He acknowledged, for he was a very cunning man, that there was a chance he would fail, and the prophecy would see itself fulfilled. Most magical aspects about life had an annoying habit of coming to fruition. And just as he had killed the Potters, it seemed there a _chance_ and arguable chance, that he himself would taste defeat, and death before the end of the war he had orchestrated. It was an idea that did not sit well with him. Not because he was unwilling to accept his own death, that was not an issue, he had accept that a long time before this quiet, stolen moment.

No, the issue laid in what, or rather _whom_ would be his undoing. Harry Potter.

Harry Potter, the boy that lived, and the boy who had, by some miracle, bested him while being not much more than an infant. It was a wonder, really. Most people probably assumed he was furious, and he had been, to begin with. But these days it was more morbid curiosity. Even if he now understood how the freak accident had occurred.

From the darkness, he heard Bellatrix's laugh, it rang through the room with a hint of psychotic, the dark, tangible hatred that rolled through her sole until there was little left about the woman that was pure and untainted. At times, she was his greatest accomplishment. At times, his greatest failure.

He had taken to seeing all of his children that way, he was proud of them, there was no doubt on that score, proud of them for getting so much further this time around than the last. They controlled the Ministry; they could watch the move of every witch, wizard and child. They set decrees, enforced their laws, and on the whole, the Wizarding World was better for. Yes some suffered, he was willing to admit that. He had never denied that for some, his purebred paradise would be nothing short of hell. He had promised hell, as a matter of fact.

But what was the suffering of the dredges of their world, of the abnormalities of Mudbloods, and the blasphemous half-bloods in comparison to the happiness of the Pure? The strong and untainted magical blood that coursed through the veins of so many of his children? It was nothing. Nothing compared to how they suffered while allowing a Muggle-born to survive.

His wand twirled lazily as he looked around the dark, dank room of which he was housed. He preferred Malfoy Manor, but the Malfoy's had proved themselves to be _so_ weak. So _unreliable_, disappointing. What a loss. A loss of such a beautiful, untainted magical blood line; he considered allowing them to live. Making them breeders for his new world order, so the beautiful platinum blond hair and quicksilver gazes would never die, or be tainted. But he had no use for those who did not serve him. No use at all.

_No,_ he decided. _No, best to not allow them life_. His mind made up, on at least something, since so much of his mind remained just a swirling, boring void of indecision and regrets, he stood, his body swathed in black, rising to steeple over his subjects, his offspring who immediately bowed as he moved, and they bowed out of loyalty, and love, and respect. The bowed because he was their father, and their leader, and their lover. He was their beginning, and their end. And they would undoubtedly fallow him into death, as they followed him in life.

_So disappointing_, he mentally sighed. He did not require slaves, mindless, spineless slaves who jumped when he said jump for the sake of making an impression. He needed children who believed, who fought, tooth, nail and soul to not only live, but spread his words and his ideals, to recruit others and encourage them to do the same. He had _thought_ Bellatrix, perhaps. But her years in prison had changed her, tainted her until the bright young woman who had held so much promise in his plans was no longer.

Really, how much disappointment could one dark wizard take? It was most unbearable. His bare feet padded against the dark, dirty floor, his robes rustling along behind him as he moved with the grace and agility of the animal that most represented him, of his familiar.

"Come, Nagini." He rasped, pausing to allow his beautiful pride and joy in the world, his true comrade, his friend, wrap herself around his body, twisting and inching until she lounged along his shoulders, body coiled around his neck, the warmth of her body heavy against his skin, through the soft silk of his robes, and as she hissed, he returned her words, cooing sweet nothings to her in the native tongue of the serpent.

"We will make for Malfoy Manor," he ordered, his reptilian eyes scanning his subjects as they all looked up, confused, Bellatrix ceased her dancing, her dress robes falling still as she stared at him in mute disbelieafe. "Yes, my Lord." Seemed to ripple throught he air around him as they took their chance to bow. "Disappointing," he sighed to himself as he looked at Bellatrix, fighting to waves of his failures as he looked her over. "Bella, my love," he called, and she snapped out of her trance quickly rushing forward to fawn over him.

It made his skin crawl.

"Why don't you get the prisoner, have Wormtail bring her along and guard her for us?" Though it was phrased as a question, she knew, as well as everyone else that it was an order, and she bowed quickly.

"Yes, my Lord, your wish is my command."

He sighed heavily as he moved his hand to stroke, the soft, warm scales of Nagini's head before he spoke to her again, waiting until she nodded before he disappeared with a ripple of loud, echoing cracks following suit.

Some days, his children were such disappointments. And if he were to survive, Voldemort conceded that he would have no choice but to teach them all a lesson, or perhaps, kill them all, and start fresh. _Yes_, that was another good idea.


End file.
